But the one that was last of all—­he did not go on with the rest, but stayed, as if in wonder, looking at her.  A tall, slender lad.  His jacket was unbuttoned, his cap a trifle on one side, and a mischievous expression played about his sunburnt face.

But the girl sees nothing, thinking the men have gone.  And she, the looker-on, finds it strange that the girl should not see....  What is going to happen now?

Then the young man smiles, and steals forward noiselessly—­the looker-on is all excitement now, and on the point of crying out to warn her.

Two hands reach out from behind and close gently over the girl’s eyes.

“Oh!” screams the girl.  “Who is it?  How dare you!” And with a scream she turns and sees him standing there.

“Good evening,” says the young man, laughing, and raising his cap.  And the looker-on notes how the girl only blushes, and makes no answer.

“Did I frighten you?” he goes on.  “I meant no harm, I’m sure.”

“’Tis no matter,” says the girl.  “I was only startled for a moment.”

“And you’re not angry now?”

“Nay; why should I be?  For a jest?”

“That’s right.  I felt directly I saw you as if we were old friends—­only I couldn’t remember your name, so I thought I’d just stop and ask.”

Oh, but ’tis a handsome lad—­and such a smile, thinks the girl looking on.

“Pansy, they call me,” says the other girl shyly, “but....”

“Say no more,” the young man breaks in.  “Pansy, they call you—­’tis enough for me.”

Surely then the name must be a good one, since he seems to like it so, thinks the girl looking on.

“And you...?” asks the girl.  “You’re a stranger, I think.”

“Stranger?” cries the young man, with a laugh that echoes through the room.  “Couldn’t you feel it was a friend and no ‘stranger’ when my hands closed over your eyes?” And he looks at her with such irresistible friendliness as he speaks, that she cannot but smile—­and the girl looking on smiles too.

“Olof’s my name—­and no stranger, if you please.”

After that he seemed to be thinking for a moment, then suddenly he asks, “Are you fond of flowers, Pansy?”

“Yes, indeed.  And I’ve two of my own—­a fuchsia and a balsamine,” answers the girl.

“Red flowers both!  And do you keep them in your window?”

“Where else should they be?”

“And can you see them from outside?”

“Indeed you can, now they’re in bloom.”

“And where is your window, then?” says he, with a sly little gleam in his eyes.  “Tell me, so I can see them too when I pass.”

The girl opens her lips to answer, but checks herself suddenly.  “Nay,
I’ll not tell!”

Oh, but how cunning of him, thinks the looker-on.  Never was such a sly one.  Anyone else would just have asked straight out where she slept.  And then of course the girl would have been offended at once.  But this young man—­he says never a word of anything but flowers.